Nearer and nearer round his head they hovered, and the cold drops melted on his forehead. The bright light shot into his eyes, dazzling him, and the frozen blood began to run. And he said:
“Yes, why should I die here in this awful darkness? They are warm, they melt my frozen blood!” and he stretched out his hands to take them.
Then in a moment there arose before him the image of the thing he had loved, and his hand dropped to his side.
“Oh, come to us!” they cried.
But he buried his face.
“You dazzle my eyes,” he cried, “you make my heart warm; but you cannot give me what I desire. I will wait here—wait till I die. Go!”
He covered his face with his hands and would not listen; and when he looked up again they were two twinkling stars, that vanished in the distance.
And the long, long night rolled on.
All who leave the valley of superstition pass through that dark land; but some go through it in a few days, some linger there for months, some for years, and some die there.
At last for the hunter a faint light played along the horizon, and he rose to follow it; and he reached that light at last, and stepped into the broad sunshine. Then before him rose the almighty mountains of Dry-facts and Realities. The clear sunshine played on them, and the tops were lost in the clouds. At the foot many paths ran up. An exultant cry burst from the hunter. He chose the straightest and began to climb; and the rocks and ridges resounded with his song. They had exaggerated; after all, it was not so high, nor was the road so steep! A few days, a few weeks, a few months at most, and then the top! Not one feather only would he pick up; he would gather all that other men had found—weave the net—capture Truth—hold her fast—touch her with his hands—clasp her!